


Boiga

by yeaka



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Anal Sex, Established Relationship, Exhibitionism, F/M, Ficlet, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-13
Updated: 2015-07-13
Packaged: 2018-04-09 02:53:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4331058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rose enjoys Thomas enjoying Atticus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Boiga

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for silentgirlspeaksout’s “Thomas/Atticus + Rose” prompt on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/). **I can’t (and didn’t) write historically, accurately, or britpick.** You’ve been warned. Sort of a companion piece to [Integration](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2908253).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Downton Abbey or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

It’s a little different than when he takes her; the fierceness is missing, replaced, instead, by a certain vulnerability—pure indulgence, beyond what’s _expected_. This is a guilty pleasure for all three of them. It shows under Atticus’ skin—his expression’s lost all control, _he’s_ lost all control, and now he’s pure reaction for her to hungrily devour. 

Thomas looks just as handsome. His beauty is a different kind—he isn’t soft and sweet like her dear Atticus, but rough and skilled and slick, his hair perfect even though there’s a few beads of sweat on his brow and his uniform’s undone. The bowtie’s gone, the vest on the floor. His shirt’s open, a white tank beneath it. His pants are still on, but open, and Atticus is in his shirt alone, white and hanging off his shoulders, nothing beneath but more bare skin for Thomas to run his hands over. Thomas grips Atticus’ plump thighs, squeezes and glides to his hips, digs in with long, biting fingers, blunt nails leaving pink marks. Atticus’ hands are on Thomas’ neck, occasionally slipping through Thomas’ hair, though it still falls back so perfectly. Atticus’ own brown locks are a mess. His cheeks are flushed. His eyes are dilated, falling closed, then opening to slip to Rose, hazy and full of _love_ —and she wants to murmur reassurances— _That’s it, darling, you’re doing so well, keep going for me_ —but she doesn’t dare speak and ruin the magic. She’s already come to sit too close. She’s against the headboard, right next to Thomas, with Atticus riding his lap like a horse, wild but not quite free. 

Thomas owns him now, though never as much as Rose does. Atticus always checks with her, doesn’t even kiss him without her permission, although of course she always likes to see them kiss, almost as much as she likes to see them make love. There’s something so intoxicating about the idea of her husband being _filled_ by another man, stretched open and taken the way he does to her. They look so good together, the two of them, strong and tall and harder angles. Their square hips press together when Atticus rolls forward, pulls back, slips on again. He bounces lewdly on Thomas’ cock to the rhythmic sound of slapping flesh and squelching lubrication. He doesn’t know quite what he’s doing yet. They’ve only done this a few times, but not enough. Thomas looks like he knows _everything_. There’s a skill to everything he does. He pulls Atticus down by the hair for a kiss, deep and languid, and Rose can see _everything_. She leans closer to watch Thomas’ tongue slip into her husband’s mouth, his teeth clasping onto to Atticus’ bottom lip. She bites her own, crossing her legs. 

She keeps squeezing their thighs together. She doesn’t want to do anything else. Thomas isn’t interested in her, she knows that much, and she doesn’t want to scare him away—though she’ll jump Atticus later with the full force of her want. He’ll take it, like the brilliant man he is. He fulfills every one of her fantasies, and he enjoys it, too. They’re a perfect match. Thomas is a lovely third. Thomas wraps his gloved hand around Atticus’ shaft and pumps it in time with their thrusts, making Atticus moan brokenly between their lips. 

He looks debauched. Beautiful. Naughty and filthy and the sort of thing that would give their parents a heart attack. But they’re young, new, experimental. Forbidden things make Rose excited. _Atticus_ makes Rose excited. Atticus riding another man’s cock is _exquisite_. Even when his mouth is full of Thomas’ tongue, he occasionally looks at her, glowing adoration. Thomas pulls away from Atticus’ plush lips to nip at his chin, his cheek, run around his jaw, and Rose hears Thomas hiss in a silken, purely erotic purr, “ _Come for me._ ”

Behind closed doors, Atticus always obeys Thomas’ commands, just as he obeys Rose’s. He cries out, hoarse and blissful, and his cock spurts jets of white over Thomas’ fingers. Rose has the fleeting hope that he’ll _lick it up_ , dirty though it is, or maybe feed it to Atticus, like he’s done a few times—Thomas is quickly giving Rose an oral fixation. Walking in on him pressing a cigarette to his lips has become a dangerous thing. This time, Thomas only wipes his hand across Atticus’ chest, smearing him with the seed of a servant, then surging forward to shove him down. Atticus’ back hits the sheets, and he grunts, his legs thrown into the air and spread around Thomas’ thighs. Thomas leans over him on all fours and thrusts into him with an intense vigor. Even spent, Atticus takes it. He wraps his arms tiredly around Thomas’ shoulders and lets Thomas pound him mercilessly into the mattress, while Rose’s eyes fly between Thomas’ flexing ass and Atticus’ sex-addled face. She thinks of lying down beside them to pet him and kiss him and stroke his perfect body, but she tells herself next time—she has to be sure that Thomas will come back. 

Thomas takes Atticus until his own end is coming, and then he pulls himself out, sitting up and pointing his cock at Atticus’ stomach. He takes Atticus’ hand, wraps Atticus’ fingers around it, and forces Atticus to milk him out, until he’s adding his own seed to Atticus’ mess. Thomas is quieter when he comes, but just as gorgeous. He tosses his head back, mouth open, perfect to the last. Even when he’s done, he doesn’t quite slump like Atticus does, just relaxes, satiated and pleased. 

Rose is still wet, but she’ll take care of that later. She’s thought many times of them taking Atticus together, Thomas behind him and her in front, or perhaps all lying side by side in bed. It’ll happen. But tonight, Thomas starts to finger-comb his hair down and putting his buttons through the holes while Atticus’ legs are still spread for him. 

Rose finally breaks the silence to ask, “Please, won’t you stay?” It comes out a little whiny, but she can’t help herself. She can see the smirk on his face even before he turns to her—self-satisfaction—he knows exactly how good he is. 

He still tells her, quite calmly, “That wouldn’t be wise, my lady. Just in case.”

Rose wrinkles her nose. It’s true, and she knows it, but it’s difficult to take that for an answer. She huffs, meaning it truly, “When we have everything settled in our own home, we’ll find a place for you, and you’ll be able to sleep wherever you like.” Thomas smiles like he knows, or at least knows that she believes it, whatever his doubts might be. She knows he’s ambitious, but they’ll find a position for him, high enough, with plenty of money and sex. 

All he says is, “Thank you, my lady.” And he pats Atticus’ leg, then moves them both back so he can climb off the bed, tucking himself into his trousers. Atticus’ head rolls to the side, and he and Rose watch Thomas dress. He makes even that a show. Perhaps he thinks he’s roped them in right where he wants them, but Rose still thinks she has the best deal. When he’s through the door, she misses his presence, or at least, the sight of him atop Atticus. 

She still has Atticus. And she _loves_ Atticus. She instantly crawls to him, collapsing at his side, an arm and a leg tossing over him, even still in her nightgown as she is. He sighs, “You’re the best wife ever,” and kisses her forehead.

She snuggles into him, mewling happily and plotting tomorrow night, when she’ll put her honey on his knees.


End file.
